Spaceman Craig, and Chickenlegs
by X180
Summary: Craig has never been in control of his own life. He knows this, and has more or less come to terms with it. But when he meets someone who can offer him the chance he's always wanted, who is he to refuse? CREEK. CHAPTER 2 UP!
1. Number 47

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

**Hey! After a long hituas, I've returned to the South Park fandom with something I've been meaning to write for a few months now. I have an awful habit of not finishing my chapter stories, so I'm not going to write anything else until this is finished. I probably just lied right there. **

**Anyhow- I realized that my writing skills have improved. I have also realized that it's rather counterproductive to keep my old, poorly written works on my profile. So with that in mind, I'm going to delete a lot of them. **

**Mostly, I'll be ridding myself of my chapter fics. They'll probably be up until the end of the week, then cease to exist. On the search engine, at least. **

**Reviews are greatly appreciated! Remember, a review a day keeps the looming threat of an unfinished fic away! **

**-.-.-.-**

Some people call me a dreamer. This is because I like to invent stories that don't exist, and lie about the ones that do. But I promise, nothing I write on this college-rule notebook paper will be a lie. At least, nothing that needs to be.

-.-.-

Around my senior year, I was hit with the tremendous realization that I was dying. Given, I was dying at a painstakingly slow pace, (I figured I still had a good 60 years of dying left before I was actually dead) I was still dying nonetheless. I had grown up in a rather conservative family- the kind that goes to church every Sunday and votes against Pro-choice laws- but I wasn't convinced. I knew, and I think my whole family knew in a much more passive manner, that after this life, we would be matched up against an infinite sheet of nothingness and nothing more. I suppose It wasn't the most fantastical idea of the afterlife, but it was the truth.

The horrible, gross truth.

This realization hit me like a train careening down the railroad tracks at speeds fast enough to send Marty McFly back to 1980. It left the sour taste of bile on my tongue, and a gaping cavity in my chest. I decided that this was because I was afraid.

Afraid that, when I died, I would've never done any significant thing for myself. That I would always remain the product of someone else's decisions, and that when I passed, my family would have no choice but to plagiarize a eulogy from the Internet because there was nothing I owned unique to myself.

Let me explain.

Since I was born into the Tucker family, my dad had already formed a 1080-pixel photo of who I was going to be. I was going to be a hardworking man who earned myself a respectable job, and I would fall in love with a beautiful woman, and we would be the first to watch our children take their first breath of the sterile hospital air. I would put the Tucker name in good hands.

When I was born, my father was alone. He must've had the same fear of dying that I do now, because he married straight out of high school to a lady named Thelma. He was all set to go to a prestigious college to major in psychology, but Thelma dropped a bombshell: she was pregnant. Being the faithful Catholic man he was, Dad refused to let her abort the baby, so fast-forward nine months and four visits to the state court over custody, and I was born.

Since then, I've dealt with the tragic afterthought that I inadvertently ruined my father's life. I crushed his chance at becoming a brilliant psychologist, and ruined his marriage with his high school sweetheart. I probably contributed to his balding issue, too.

I presume you're wondering why I'm wasting page space and graphite prattling on about the woes of my father. Hang on, I'm getting there. Because, you see, it's extremely difficult, if not impossible, to fully comprehend my father's actions without having a grasp of his motives.

So, because he was a failure at his own life, he decided that the only flimsy redemption he could ever achieve would be to make mine in his image. From the start, I had my road mapped out for me. Danger and Caution signs blocked off any path that would lead me astray from my father's goal. Not that I cared much.

I have always been happy to comply, and at times downright thankful to do so. Letting my dad arrange my life for me proved monumentally easier than doing it myself. It meant I had more time to spend writing stories and less time worrying about my own.

Unfortunately, the funny thing about life is that it's hardly ever smooth and predictable.

And this, I suppose, is where the real story begins.

-.-.-

I'm not sure exactly where to start- from the moment I realized I was falling head over heels for a boy who slept with his dead mother's urn most every night, or from the exact second I watched the last stroke of his mechanical pencil grace paper. But I think the right place to start would be the beginning.

The beginning, as referring to the first time I laid eyes on the teenager more difficult to figure out than a Rubix cube.

I was in honors English, Mrs. Crawson's class, 11:34, when I first met Tweek.

He stumbled in just as the late bell rung, tripping over his untied converse and smiling brightly. Mrs. Crawson offered him a sympathetic, albeit confused look. His blond hair was a wild mop of fritz and static, and it was long, cupping his strong, broad, jawline and small elf-like nose. His arms and face was marked up by sharpies, depicting several birds. A large chunk of the cartilage of his left ear was missing.

"Excuse me, sir? Are you in the right classroom?" she asked in her mousy, polite voice. One would not expect such a sound ever coming from a woman of her magnitude. By which, I mean she was fat.

"I- I think so!" he yelled, gesturing with his hands and sending his stack of books tumbling down to the tile floor. They made a monstrous booming noise, and echoed across the room. He cursed under his breath and knelt down to pick them up.

By now, the entire class had stopped whatever meaningless chatter they had been participating in to watch the spectacle of a boy trying to balance books that were probably heavier than he was on his arms. He blushed in embarrassment, biting his lower lip.

"I'm Tweek. I just moved here. I mean, not to South Park- to this class. I used to be in Mr. Dob's English class but I got moved up to honors," he said this all in one breath, speaking so quickly that I'm surprised anyone had any clue of what he was spitting on about. He shifted his weight anxiously between two freakishly thin legs, and his bright blue eyes kept darting about as if he feared a serial killer lay just hidden within his blind side.

"Oh yes! I remember now," the teacher exclaimed with a look on her face that said, 'duh!'. "Congratulations on getting into honors! Take a seat, and I'll pass you the syllabus. We're doing free writing right now, so take out your notebook and pen and get going."

Tweek nodded, grinning from ear to ear, and heaved his pile of books to the seat behind me. They plopped down on his desk, and he sifted through his things before finding a yellow notebook that was rather worse for wear. I shrugged and looked down at my paper, which was alarmingly empty. I jotted a few words in the upper right corner, smudging the blue ink with my left hand as I wrote.

_'SPACE LOG, MONDAY, JULY 7_

_'My findings on this strange planet are very odd. Not only are the inhabitants, dubbed the Red Bellies, oddly civilized. They seem to have a whole government and social hierarchy unlike any I've seen before. Most amazing of all, however i-'_

I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. I blew out a short puff of air through my nose and whipped around, meeting eyes with Tweek.

"Can I help you?" I muttered, eyebrows scrunched together, and fingers tapping restlessly at the back of my chair.

"Why do we write in pen? We can't erase stuff. What if we write something wrong? What if we're penalized?" he asked, a slightly concerned edge to his voice.

"It's so we don't worry about messing up. We can edit later, if we'd like, but right now we're just trying to get words on the paper," I explained, gesturing to my page of neatly printed writing.

"Oh."

I groaned and continued to transcribe my imagination into the page.

_'-is the grandeur of the city itself. Modern architecture holds no flame to these works of meticulously crafted beauty. While marveling at a structure roughly ten stories tall and two football fields wide in size, I was approached by-' _

The tapping returned. I again blew a puff of air from my nose and turned around. A low growling sound only audible to me rumbled in the back of my throat.

"You should add a monster! An _alien_ monster!" he whispered, bouncing in his seat. His intelligent blue eyes glimmered with life.

"Haven't you heard of privacy?" I snapped, covering my writing with my arms and my cheeks tinged an embarrassed pink.

"Privacy is a luxury no good writer can afford," Tweek laughed softly. His nose scrunching up as he snickered.

"Then I'll just write when nobody's watching," I shot back, scowling.

"Oh they'll be watching," Tweek hissed ominously, his cheerful demeanor washed away. It was replaced with a stone cold grimace. "They're _always_ watching. Just waiting,_ yearning,_ for you to fuck up so they can find something to laugh at."

"_Jesus_," I breathed, my face twisted in confusion and a bit of fear. Around this time, the only coherent thought in my brain was, '_man, this guy's a piece of work alright_,'. I was silent for a few moments, and that's when he spoke up.

"Yep! So that's why I like using pencil! It's a ton easier to fix your mistakes, don't you think?" He quipped, his bright and bouncing expression plastered back on his face.

I turned around and scribbled a few more words, staring blankly into the fake wood of my desk.

'_-a very big monster. An alien monster.' _

I finished my paper, closing my notebook promptly, and frowning.

At the end of the free write, Mrs. Crawson called the class back together and asked if there were any volunteers to read their writing. A few people raised their hands and rattled off some amateur poetry, or a bullet-point list what they had done over the weekend. And then, a very thin and bony wrist shot into the air like a spring-loaded trap. Mrs. Crawson smiled warmly and gestured for Tweek to share.

"Right. I wrote a poem," Tweek announced. His voice, loud and clear- much akin to those of practiced politicians- caught the attention of just about everyone in class. "It's title: Number 47."

Mrs. Crawson raised her eyebrows in interest and leaned forward.

Tweek, obviously pleased with her reaction, began to read.

_A little boy/_

_Who looks at the stars/ _

_And deems himself a worthy spaceman/ _

_Even though he is small/ _

_Smaller than the boot of Neil Armstrong/_

_Smaller than the research papers cluttering an astrologer's desk/ _

_A little boy/_

_Who dreams of space/_

_What a fucking dork. _

Tweek showcased a proud, shit-eating grin as recited his poem, his eyes never straying from my face. I'm not sure if the urge to punch somebody in the face had ever burnt so strongly in me. You see, until this point in time, I had never once been challenged so bluntly, nor so viciously. I was very sensitive of my writing ability- sentimental, even. If anyone proved a better author, I would make sure to read all their works, analyze their style, and create something more powerful and thought provoking than they could ever care to imagine.

Call me obsessed, call me stuck-up- I don't care. Because that's the truth, and the truth was that I could not lose my only redeemable talent to someone who thought they had the skill to outdo me.

But Tweek- he didn't try to outdo my writing. He didn't try to form sentences that left an impact. He didn't ponder over extensive vocabularies or meaningful uses of figurative language. He didn't try to beat me at my own game- he created a new one altogether. And I suppose I felt mad because I believed that he had cheated.

Mrs. Crawson then turned to me.

"Craig? You always share. Why don't you read what you have? I'm sure the class would enjoy knowing what happens next," she smiled encouragingly. I swallowed a pit of doubt that had solidified in my saliva.

"Sure," I responded, voice as taut as a pulled wire. I stood, my eyes scanning the eager faces of my classmates. I had earned something of a reputation reading off my free writes, which compared much to a chapter story with daily updates.

"I mean- I would. But I think Tweek's poem sort of summarized it," I ended awkwardly, sinking back into my chair.

As I planted my butt firmly into the plastic seat, I was greeted yet again by the tap-tapping of Tweek's bony finger.

"Why didn't you share?" he asked curiously.

"Like your poem said- it was a stupid," I snapped back, my chest still aching from the humiliation he had just inflicted upon my frail ego.

"My p- you were bothered that much by it?" Tweek questioned, his head cocked slightly to the left.

"Gee, I wonder."

"Hey man, it was a crackpot poem. It's not supposed to mean anything- least of all your story. I like your story. I want to catch up on it, if you'd let me read the entire thing," he offered me a nervous smile. I accepted it.

"Sure," I replied, handing him my notebook. Our fingers brushed up against each other.

I found that his hands lingered for a few more moments, eyes directed to our point of connection. Or perhaps it had been nothing more than a foggy memory altered by my imagination. Either way, I retracted my hands as if they had been washed with holy water and stared at them curiously.

I couldn't focus all class- not with Tweek behind me, possibly reading my journal. I couldn't look behind me, either, or he'd think I was creepy. So instead, I just stared at my splotchy red palms. The teacher had to call me to attention more than a few times when I was zoning out, and each time I returned to the lesson more scatterbrained than the last.

About five minutes before class ended, Tweek was dismissed to leave. I shot him a bewildered look, to which he simply passed me a ripped piece of notebook paper. Tweek collected his things and shuffled out the door. Seconds later, we heard a loud crash as his things presumably crashed to the ground once again. While the teacher was busy rushing out of the classroom to make sure Tweek was alright, I looked down at the crumpled paper. On it, a set of seven numbers: 855-4657, and a footnote underneath, that read, 'Text me'.

I decided right then that I would do just that.


	2. Almont Road

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

**Hey! You guys do not know how many times I got two thousand words into this chapter and then scrapped it. I'm actually very nervous about this chapter because it was torn to shreds and rebuilt so many times. Yikes. **

**In other news, it'd be awesome if you checked out my art Tumblr, which can be found on my profile. Send me a message while you're at it~**

**I post updates, art, blah blah blah promotional bullshit blah. Whatever. You'd rather read about gay boys, huh? Well here you go.**

**Remember- A review away keeps the long and painful hiatus away!**

**-.-.-.-**

I did not text Tweek after school like his sloppy note suggested. I didn't need to.

Rather, he texted me first.

Par to my observations, his texting was just as wild and erratic as the rest of him. His message, though short, was inexplicably riddled with typos, errors, and pointless colon-parentheses smiley faces. I read once that to err is human- however this was simply ridiculous. For the sake of your eyes, and for the sake of my legitimacy as a writer, I will omit the worst of his atrocities, and allow you to add them at your obligation.

So with that note past, I felt a buzz in my back pocket.

I was shuffling out of the halls, and had not even felt the brisk blast of ice against my skin when he texted. Figuring that I really didn't care when I arrived at home, and neither did my mom, I shrugged up against my closed locker and checked the dim screen of my old slide-phone.

**TWEEK:  
**_hey man i know i said for U to text ME, but u should know that i am a very impatient person_

I typed with slow, en-pointe precision, because even in something as menial and trivial as a one-sentence text, I preferred my writing remain impeccable. Yeah, I get it- I'm a pretentious dork of multiple levels.

**CRAIG:  
**_No problem. But how, pray tell, did you get my number?_

**TWEEK:  
**_bummed it offa clyde._

**CRAIG:  
**_You two are friends?_

**TWEEK:  
**_not exactly. we were in the same support group or whatever for a few weeks, but i really dont like making friends out of tragedy, yaknow?_

I scrunched up my brow in bewilderment. Pursing my lips, I decidedly swung my backpack around my other shoulder and began to text as I walked. I was already a slow typist, but what with the constant glances up to make sure I was not heading for another person's body, or a locker, or a table in the halls, I was tapping the keys at an painstakingly slow pace.

So much so, that Tweek sent me several other texts while I tried preparing a single one.

**TWEEK:  
**_it's not a weird support group or anything._

**TWEEK:  
**_i swear! respond, man!_

**TWEEK:  
**_look its just a thing they held for kids- it was a long time ago come on! text back already._

Snorting in a bemused fashion to myself, I finally sent the pending message.

**CRAIG:  
**_Whoa, calm down there. I didn't know you went to a support group, though. Is it like one of those drug/drinking incognito rehab things?_

**TWEEK:  
**_WHAT? NO WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT?_

**TWEEK:  
**_seriously tho. it wasnt one of those. it was a support group for like, kids who lose their moms or whatever._

**CRAIG:  
**_You lost your mom? I'm sorry to hear that, Tweek._

**TWEEK:  
**_its no biggie. well i mean it IS sort of a biggie, but i mean it happened a long time ago. im over it, ok?_

I had the glaring suspicion that Tweek was, in fact, not over it, but I kept that to myself.

I will go off topic here, and state that mothers, and the idea of motherhood, was a constantly baffling concept to me. As previously stated, my father married right out of high school to a woman named Thelma. After having me, he divorced her and eventually the red string of destiny brought him to meet Catherine, my stepmother.

This is relevant, I promise. Just try to be patient, and you'll eventually figure out where I'm going with this.

So I had only experienced five shy years of life thus far, when my now-divorced and jaded _woe-is-me_ father decided to tie the knot with a woman who, by that time, I'd only seen thrice. I was still small, and so I still called Thelma 'mom' even though at that age I had seen her even less. So it's not like I had an influx of mother-son interaction.

Eventually, my stepmother and my father, not even a year into marriage, had sex, which would eventually create a fetus, which would eventually become my little sister, Ruby, who would, in turn, compromise my new mother, and my old father's attention with me tenfold. And at the small age of seven, I harbored the baggage in which jealousy wrought so deeply that it caused stress wrinkles to form around the corners of my eyes like crow's feet. This was because my stepmother called Ruby her daughter, and refused to adopt me. I was not _her_ son- I was her _husband's_ son.

It might also be fair take note that I am a tremendously jealous kind of human being, and I found myself hating the two figures in my life that every child makes pink construction paper hearts for on Mother's Day for making me feel that unbridled envy.

The point of this long, and likely boring explanation, is that I never really had a mother figure. I had two, vaguely mother-like people in my life, but that was it.

So here's my hypothesis.

_'Having two distant mothers, while fairly unpleasant, is not worse than having no mother at all.'_

And this applies to Tweek, too. Although his hypothesis, however, would go something like this.

_'Fuck mothers. Seriously. Who cares?'_

But that's just Tweek- who both hates and hated: over-analytic bullshit, and sympathy, and pretentiousness.

But as I look at the phone screen, dodging bodies of other teenagers through the halls, I do not know this. I also have not mulled over this topic long enough to invent my hypothesis, leaving me to be a rather insensitive prick, for lack of better words.

**CRAIG:  
**_Are you sure? You seem bothered. I know we just met a small while ago, but it's okay to talk to me._

The text, unlike the previous ones, came after several minutes.

**TWEEK:  
**_i said i was okay. goddamn if i wanted a fuckin therapist id be sitting in a shitty office and paying a guy 20 bucks an hour to listen to my bullshit and nod condescendingly._

I raised my eyebrows, biting my lower lip and feeling a cold sweat form on my forehead. Nervous that I did something wrong, I began to type out a string of apologies, which were fortunately interrupted by a few texts from Tweek.

**TWEEK:  
**_that was a joke._

**TWEEK:  
**_im trying to be funny._

I released a breath of relief and smiled.

**CRAIG:  
**_You'd be wise to stay in school, Dane Cook._

**TWEEK:  
**_craig? are u doing anything this weekend btw? totally not tryna be creepy here, and i know we just sort of met, but wanna hang out or something?_

**CRAIG:  
**_I'll ask. Hang on._

The fact of the matter was that since I woke up, I had been frantically looking for any reason to be away from home for the afternoon. Back to the fact of mothers, Thelma still _was_ my mom, and consequently still demanded custody over me every Friday and Saturday. Meaning today belonged to her.

It was going to break her heart (as she explicitly told me, I do all the time), but with her, it was simpler feeling guilty for a few minutes than it was a whole night.

The phone rang once, then twice. Then sounded a soft click, and a raspy "Hello?"

Me: "Hi, Thelma. S'Craig. Your son."

Thelma: "Oh. Oh! Say, what would you like for dinner?"

Me: "I'm not gonna be home tonight. A friend invited me over. Is that okay?"

Slow pause. Then, the inevitable bone-rattling thunder.

Thelma: "You're kidding."

Me: "I'm not."

Thelma: "Craig Tucker, I see you twice a week. _Twice_. You're just going to break my heart, and prioritize, you're going to _chose_ some friends over your _mother_?" Thelma hissed. I cringed, feeling a pang of guilt in my stomach.

Me: "Seems to be so."

Thelma: "Craig Tucker, this hurts. You know that, right?"

Me: "I know."

Thelma: "You know you're hurting me."

Me: "Yes."

Thelma: "And you _continue_ to do so."

Me: "Sure."

Thelma: "Whatever. Have fun, I guess. I love you, Craig. You know that."

Me: "I know. Love you too, Thelma."

I hung up with hot bile in my stomach and my jaw clenched tighter than a pair of tool-shed pliers. I shook my head and muttered a few choice curse words under my breath before sending a text to Tweek.

**CRAIG:**  
_My mom said yes. Where do you live?_

**TWEEK:**  
_if its all cool, u could like, walk with me or whatever. im just outside the school. ill wait for u. gotta keep an eye out tho. creepy guy in a van is totally watching me. oh man oh man he's getting out of the car. _

**TWEEK:**_  
ohhh my god. if i die tell my dad he shoulda let me bring my tazer to school._

**TWEEK:**  
_oh wait he's leaving. nvm. i think he heard me talking about the tazer and got scared._

**TWEEK:**_  
he's gone! _

**TWEEK:****_  
_**_dude i totally saved ur life right there._

**CRAIG:  
**_And they say chivalry is dead._

**TWEEK:  
**_nobody says that. _

**CRAIG:  
**_Right... I'll be there in a few moments._

Par to Colorado standards, it was rather warm out. Meaning, if you happen to _not_ live in Colorado, it was almost nice enough outside to melt the snow. I hummed contentedly, blue eyes scanning the stairs leading out of the puke-yellow school for the scrawny guy. It took me a few seconds, but I eventually spotted him, looking like a brought-to-life troll doll with his frizzy blond mess of hair, and seemingly trying to balance a snowball on his nose. He was just as fidgety and twitchy as earlier today, perhaps more so. He tapped his hands on the cold handrail behind him and leaned back against it so that he could comfortably bounce his leg.

Snorting and shaking my head in a dismissive and bemused fashion, I trotted over to where he was and smacked the snow off his face. It scattered in a big powdery mess and pelted the ground. Tweek scattered in a similar fashion, jumping and reflexively shielding himself by pulling up a skinny leg and holding out his arms. After having a moment to realize that it was me, he relaxed.

"_Rude,_" he remarked, adjusting his drawstring bag over his shoulders. It would probably fit better over my sister's back, and I mean that in all respect to the bag. It was light blue with cartoon clouds, and an angry swan in the middle with bubblegum pink text reading: '**FEELIN' A BIT FOWL'. **"I almost beat my high score."

"Come again?"

"You know," he drawled, kicking off the stair handrail and walking down the steps. "High score. I usually try to see how long I can hold a snowball on my nose. I chicken out all the time, though. I'm horrified of getting hypothermia or whatever."

"That sounds a bit masochistic," I quipped, following after him.

"Not really. Ever hear of facing your fears?"

"Good point."

We walked in silence for a moment, Tweek swinging his arms in big, jovial circles and smiling. His clear blue eyes contrasted with the absolute grayness of the rest of the city, and I couldn't help getting caught in their gaze. Despite being a writer, I was, and still am not, a good conversationalist. Unfortunately, being colloquial is exceptionally more difficult when your lines aren't premeditated. Swallowing a wad of spit and nerves, I spoke up.

"So. You're afraid of the cold?" I asked awkwardly.

"Not so much the cold," Tweek laughed. "I'd be shit-outta luck if that were the case. No- I'm more afraid of the idea that the snow might cause my nose to get gangrene or whatever and then I'll have to amputate it and end up looking like a talent-less, blond, Michael Jackson." He shivered dramatically, earning a snort of amusement from me.

"Can you do the signature crotch grab, though?"

"Yeah, lemme think... Absolutely not," Tweek laughed, his nose scrunching up like a rabbit, and only his top row of teeth showing as they were gnawing incessantly on his lower lip.

I chuckled too, my shoulders quivering.

We walked and made pointless idle chatter all the way down to main street, which, after the construction changes several years ago, branched off into several smaller streets. Apparently, the prospect of living in a small, remote, and slightly (_ha!_) obnoxious, mountain town became extremely appealing in past years. Modifications were made to create more houses, expand businesses, etc. We trotted to Main Street, and I pointed to the green road sign with a slacked arm.

"Hey, if your house is across town, we can just head down Almont road, right?" I suggested. Tweek stopped grinning. His face paled, and his eyes widened so that I could see the whites surrounding the iris. Keep in mind that this all happened within a second or two, and almost as if it were a trick of the eye, the moment after, his grin reappeared on his face as if the drastic change in body language was simply an animation glitch.

"N-nah. Let's uh, go down Greenbrair. We can turn on Smith and get there just as fast, okay?" Tweek hummed out in a shaky, nervous sort of voice that seemed to come from another place altogether because it certainly didn't fit his wide grin and arched eyebrows.

Noticing that something was clearly off, I relented, agreeing that, yeah, maybe if we go down Greenbrair we can avoid some of the jocks who like to walk home down Almont anyways.

Tweek seemed more than happy with that response.

So happy, in fact, that as we walked over to the other side of the road, I heard him whisper, "thank you," under his breath. Deciding to ignore it, I lead him down Greenbrair Avenue.

When we arrived at his house, Tweek stopped at the front door. He pulled out his phone. Took a long, trembling breath. Then turned to me.

"Ten minutes. We would've been here ten minutes earlier if we'd walked down Almont," he muttered, hand on the doorknob. He turned it slowly and tried pushing on the heavy wooden slab, only to see that it wouldn't open. Shaking his head, he shoved his shoulder into the door and grunted in effort as he pushed it open. I raised my eyebrows, wondering just how heavy that door must be.

If I spent time documenting every significant detail about Tweek's house, I'd probably require a whole second journal in itself. But to sum it up, just imagine your extremely eccentric grandmother buying way too many decorations before a family holiday party. And now imagine that in her old age, she never cared to take the decorations down, so that the tinsel was sagging in unpleasant places, and the tree was almost completely void of its lush green pines. That's Tweek's house.

A single picture hung above the mantle- a beautiful looking woman cradling a little boy with static for hair. I assumed that was Tweek's mom. She had his blue eyes, and delicate frame, alongside his small, almost fairy-like nose.

Without receiving an answer from me, Tweek walked into his house, and through the maze of scattered Christmas ornaments. I tried my best following after him, but I unfortunately lack proper coordination, and smashed a porcelain angel with my foot.

Tweek trotted into the kitchen and gravitated to the coffee machine, which was hidden behind a bunch of sad-looking music boxes. Shoving them carelessly to the side, he pulled the already full pot from the machine and filled a cup for himself.

"Want one? S'pumpkin spice. Get it on with your inner white girl or whatever," he chuckled (yes, the faux-british _huh-huh_ kind of chuckle).

"Pass."

"What?! But- but-" awestruck, Tweek tapped his temples as if he were in deep thought. "Do you not like coffee? How could you not like coffee? What kind of gross, tentacled alien _are_ you?"

I set down a road block of thought to stop his running mouth. "Ten minutes," I hummed.

"Huh? Is that code?"

"No. You said that before we walked in the house," I clarified.

Tweek 'oh'd in understanding. He took a long sip of coffee and yelped as it scorched his tongue.

"Oh yeah. I like to see how much of my life I waste because I'm afraid to walk down a certain road. And then I feel bad about it. Now _that's_ masochistic."

"Hello Tweek. How was your day?" A man with dark brown curly hair and a broad jaw asked. I felt my heart stop for half a moment, because I swear, the moment before, that man was not there. Tweek squeaked and jumped completely, spilling some coffee on himself and fervently patting down the burning liquid with his hand. After a while of trying to mollify the sting, he calmed down. Finally relaxed, Tweek shifted his weight back and forth on his heels and smiled brightly.

"Hi, dad! This is Craig! I met him in my new honors class," he introduced me proudly, extending his arms and pointing to me like I was a showcase item at a rich man's auction.

"Making friends! Atta boy, son!" Mr. Tweak held up his coffee cup, performing a makeshift toast.

"Yep! So we're gonna be in my room, okay?"

"Alright, you kids be safe. And remember to check the windows for serial killers before you sit down!" he called cheerfully as we retreated out of the kitchen. Tweek laughed under his breath and shuddered.

Tweek lead me up the stairs and turned right abruptly, opening his door with the a slightly less amount effort it took for him to open the front door. He grinned, nodding me in.

"S'kinda messy- ignore my boxers on the ground. They're clean. I think. Just in case, don't touch 'em. You might contract Tuberculosis or something," he said, a bit preoccupied with checking outside his bedroom window. I nodded skeptically and cocked a brow at his over eccentric behavior.

So, while Tweek opened his window and called out_, "I HAVE LIKE, THREE CANS OF COLOMBIAN PEPPER SPRAY!"_ I decided to look around the room.

The first thing I could see when I walked into Tweek's room was a gigantic British flag hanging up on his wall above his bed. A multitude of stuffed geese littered the room- lying on the floor, or on his unmade bed, or inside his open drawers. A fancy looking vase lay on his dresser, which had engravings of flowers on the clay exterior. Two bulky latches were on either side, preventing whatever was inside from spilling out.

The floor was a beige carpet, which was marked up with drying paint and Crayola markers, and a small stack of coloring books. I could only assume Tweek had younger company over recently.

"Welcome to Fort Tweek, Craig!" Tweek smiled so wide his face split in half, he outstretched his arms and shrugged his shoulders invitingly.

"What's up with all the geese?" I picked up a goose and inspected it. It felt small and soft in my large palms.

"They're _swans _you uncultured swine," Tweek blew a puff of air from his mouth, feigning annoyance. He rocked from leg to stick-thin leg, and fiddled with his fingers as he spoke, as if keeping still was impossible. "See, my mom came to the United States from Britain, so when I was little I used to think that she was like, the Queen of England or something. Apparently, the Queen owns all the swans of England, and so I have a collection of plush birds far larger than any healthy teenage boy should have."

"Right. Tell me if I'm prying or whatever- but why can't you go down Almont Road?" I pressed, my blatant insensitivity driven by innocent curiosity. Tweek shrugged, bit his lip nervously, and spoke.

"Fine. Look, uh, you know my mom died, right? Well if you didn't, now you do. But whatever. She uh, died in a car crash on Almont road coming home from the coffee shop where she works, y'know, Tweak Bros. coffee. And uh, obviously, um, she died," Tweek said all of this uncharacteristically slowly, smiling widely (which, don't get me wrong, was plenty unnerving), and interrupting each coherent sentence with an 'uh' or an 'um' of sorts.

"You're smiling," I observed. "Why?"

"Why not?" he snickered.

"I'm being serious."

"Take a wild guess, Craig," was his only reply. He had crossed his arms over his chest and averted his eyes. Front teeth peeking out under his top lip and digging into his bottom one.

I thought hard for a moment, and then a hypothesis dawned in on me.

"Because," I said slowly, trying to figure out the odd expression on his face, "it hurts less. It eases pain. Right?"

Tweek's face twisted into a semi-disgusted expression that read '_you gotta be kidding me_', and he shook his head. "No, dumbass," he rolled his eyes. "I smile because I like smiling. It feels _good_. It doesn't 'ease pain' or whatever psuedo-emo bullshit you're pulling out of your ass. I still hurt. I still_ feel_ shit. Look, Craig, I know what you're trying to do, okay? You're trying to pull me apart and find some... screwed up little boy. Well, I'm sorry- you're not going to find him, because _I don't have him_. What I _do_ have are my little cousin's Dora the Explorer activity books," he gestured to the stack of coloring books and markers, "and a shitload of pumpkin spice flavored coffee. If that's not enough... then I don't know what to tell you."

I took a moment in silence, just searching his face to try and figure out just what those words meant to me. Eventually, I nodded and said, "Okay."

Almost a year later, I would document his dialogue and describe his incredulous expression in a red college rule notebook and realize that they were possibly the most profound words I had ever heard in my life thus far.

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**Kudos to: Pyscho, My Own Little Universe, BeansofYuki, Style Marshlovski, Betsunoneko, and R! Thanks for the awesome reviews, guys!**


	3. Mother's Day

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK  
**

**Many people mentioned the personalities of Tweek and Craig (predominantly Tweek) in the comments. Let me just tell you how amazingly happy this makes me- I sort of believe that the heart of all great stories come from the characters, and to see such amazing response to my (admittedly odd) characterizations of characters that have pretty rigid character tropes make me super committed to keep their personalities flourishing. **

**Remember- a review a day keeps the horrendously painful stab of longer update times away! **

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_TRIGGER WARNING: Parental Abuse, Swearing_

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Being teenage boys far beyond shame or maturity, we wasted most of the night downing plus-sized Christmas mugs of coffee, defacing the stack of coloring books with sharpie marker renditions of penises (Tweek also drew a few vaginas to promote 'gender equality'), and watching trashy comedies on Netflix. Somewhere around three or four in the morning, I passed out in the middle of 'The Hangover', and Tweek had to drag my half-asleep self up the stairs.

Which would transition me into the next part of this story.

My exhaustion-burdened eyes snapped open as a familiar guitar riff ringtone blared. I groaned, rubbing the sleep from my face and patting around the rumpled blankets for my cell. After a bit of fishing, I found it buried under a pool of wrinkled covers near my thigh. I pulled it up to my ear and answered the call.

Me: 'ello?

Clyde: Bro, you gotta get over here!

He sounded rather distressed and irritated, and after a quick sideways glance directed towards Tweek's Big Ben-themed alarm clock, I figured he was probably grumpy because it wasn't even five A.M yet.

Me: Do you have a concept of time, or-?

Clyde: _Ha-ha_. I know what time it is, bro. It's just... shit, you gotta come here, okay?

Me: Why?

Clyde: Your mom's in my driveway and she's flipping out, man. Jesus- just hurry the hell up!

Shocked sober from my sleep-drenched state, I felt my stomach drop and roil as if I had eaten something that didn't agree with it. I quickly informed Clyde that I'd be right there and hung up, shoving my phone into my pocket and taking a moment to rest my elbows on my knees and massage circles into my temples.

My commotion must've roused Tweek, because he rolled over in his bed and faced me, a ruddy cheek pressed flush against his blue pillow. His eyes were half-open and his lips parted delicately, giving the illusion that he was drunk. A blue cotton shirt was hiked up to his midriff, revealing his thin stomach. Yawning, he rubbed his face with his palms and offered me a slightly irritated glare.

"What's wrong?" he drawled, slurring his words. His hand retreated from his face and he let it droop over the side of the mattress. Tweek had offered for me to sleep in his bed instead of himself, but like most polite guests, I declined, opting for the floor.

My eyebrows scrunched together, and I frowned. I must've looked rather gaunt right then, with the pale peeking sunlight being the only thing illuminating the room and hosting a conflicted expression that made my face appear aged. I shook my head dismissively.

"Nothing. Go to sleep," I whispered back, gesturing for him to roll back over.

"Well I'm awake now- no point in closing my eyes," Tweek grumbled, sitting up and stretching. His back arched, and his shirt fell to his stomach, still exposing a strip of milky white skin.

I apologized, dragging my eyes away from his lithe body as if I was intruding his privacy by staring. "Sorry," I directed my gaze to my toes.

"It's okay."

Shaking my head, I eased myself into a kneeling position and began to fold my blankets. Responding with a nonverbal arch of his eyebrows, Tweek leaned forwards and pulled his comforter off of his legs. He sat on the side of his bed, head tilted as if to ask, 'what are you doing?'. He looked like a puppy getting taunted with the word 'walk'- with his head cocked slightly to the left, an innocently curious look in his big round eyes, and his lower lip pushing past his upper one.

"My mom," I blurted out. "She's sort of freaking out. I should've told her that I was staying the night." I hung my head and tried to push down the squeezing ache of dread in my chest.

"Probably would've been wise," Tweek agreed, pulling his shirt down over his stomach and pushing off the bed with his heels.

He shouldered me away from the blanket and grabbed the corners, continuing to fold it from where I left off. Eyebrows knit together in concentration, he finished the blanket off as if he were folding a flag, the end result being a small triangle of fabric. His nimble fingers worked quickly, and I figured he had done this multitudes of times before. Running his hands over the finished product, he hummed softly and glanced at me.

Tweek smiled. "Tired?"

"Hm?" I grunted.

"You look tired. Do you want coffee?"

"I'm good. I'm gonna grab my coat and head off now though, so is that cool?" I asked, standing up and looking around Tweek's room for my gray hoodie. The shoddy thing was draped over a vintage, cool-looking-but-useless-otherwise, television set in the corner of the room.

"Got it," Tweek muttered, standing up and retrieving my coat. I thanked him awkwardly, throwing it on and shoving my arms into the well-worn sleeves. I poised my fingers to zip it up, but decided against it and shoved them into my pockets instead.

With a dismissive wave, I ambled out the door and down the carpeted stairs to the living room. The television was still paused on the minute that I fell asleep. I heard the soft thumping of feet cascading down the incline behind me and I twisted around to find myself face-to-face with Tweek. His feet were planted on the first stair, yet he was rather short, and I was rather tall, so even with the boost, he only came to my eyes.

"Yeah?"

Tweek readjusted a brown long sleeve shirt on his shoulders and yanked on the yarn-woven collar with a hooked index finger. "Coming with you," he announced.

"What?"

"Dad's at work. I don't like being alone in the house- you know, bandits, robbers, murderers: the likes. I'm coming with you." Tweek, as if to emphasize his point, shot a nervous glance behind his shoulder. "I mean, its not like I'm, uh, _scared_ or whatever. I just don't like being alone, y'know?" He was back to being restless, rocking back and forth on his heels like a Weeble-Wobble toy. He clamped down on the inside of his cheek and hunched his shoulders inwards, crossing his arms over his chest. "I mean, if that's alright," he added quickly.

I nodded reluctantly, fearing that, despite his claim of 'not being scared', he would have a panic attack if I left him be. I tried to pinpoint the moment when I decided I was responsible for keeping his irrational fears in check, but brushed it off. There was a more pressing matter to mull over, and that matter was named Thelma. Tweek smiled thankfully, his blue eyes lighting up. I stared at the heavy cedar door for a moment before shoving my shoulder into to push the slab of wood open.

It gave way instantly, leaving me to gape at the bleak gray morning skies of South Park. I bunched up my eyebrows and shook my head, leading Tweek out and mentally routing the quickest way to Clyde's house. Thankfully, we wouldn't have to walk anywhere near Almont- Clyde's house was a block or so away in the opposite direction.

My feet pounded the ground, sending puffs of snow into the air around them with a satisfying crunch. Tweek struggled to keep up, nearly jogging. Aside from proposing to him that I could slow down (he declined feverishly), we said nothing the whole trek to Clyde's house.

Clyde lived on one of the few streets in South Park that was regularly salted and tended to. As I neared his maroon colored house, I focused on the intricate spiderweb cracks driven into the sidewalk and the specs of salt trapped within them. My concentration proved so intense that Thelma's belligerent screaming was reduced a muffle. I was shocked back into the real world as I felt a shoulder bump against my arm.

Tweek looked up at me as if to ask if that was her. I responded with a sigh and the slow, relinquished, bobbing of my head. Thundering heart lodged in my throat, I steeled myself and marched forwards like a new recruit just storming to the battlefront.

Thelma looked like me- just like me. I possessed her long, curved nose, her thin jawline, and her thick raven hair. The only part of me that seemingly came from my father were my gray eyes. Coincidentally, they were also my favorite part of my appearance.

Thelma was standing in the Donovan's driveway, wailing that all she wanted was her 'baby' and that they were 'keeping me from her'. I took a long breath and then stepped behind her.

"Mom," I blurted. She didn't hear me, still ranting and raving, her arms moving in exaggerated, expressive motions.

_"Mom!"_

Thelma snapped her head around to meet my eyes and hissed. Her cheeks were tinted a strawberry red, and I could smell the sharp tang of red wine on her snake's tongue.

"Craig Tucker. Do you know how much I worried about you?!" She roared, causing me to flinch and lean back.

"I'm sorry. I should've called," my voice was a wavering whisper. It's a wonder she heard it.

"Damn right! I was hurting so much! So much! Do you even care?"

"Yes, mom."

"No! Because you only think of yourself!"

"Mom I-"

She cut me off with a malicious glare; with red in her black eyes, and fanged teeth that were yellowed with the nicotine she took in smoking cigarettes like a kid eats powder sticks. She cupped my chin with a firm grip. Jagged, unkempt fingernails gutted the flesh on my soft cheek. She reeled her free hand back behind her and cursed at me.

Now, I didn't expect Tweek to heroically present himself in front of me and take the blow, but I certainly wasn't pleased with his choice to do nothing. I was a bit preoccupied (obviously), but I could still catch a glimpse of him standing at the edge of the Donovan's driveway, eyes wide and fingers grasping helplessly at his loose shirt.

Thelma's hand collided with my face with a booming noise similar to a whip-crack sound effect. I was left with my ass planted into the driveway and my arm protectively shielding my stinging skin. I could already feel it becoming red and fiery with pain.

With an unflinching expression, Thelma displayed her hand to me. "If this gets a bruise on it," she pointed to the side of her hand that she had slapped me with. "You are grounded. Do not come home tonight, Craig Tucker. You've caused me enough suffering for one weekend." With that, she collected the overlapping folds of her coat in her witchlike hands and strode off in the other direction.

I was left staring after her, my stomach roiling with guilt and my face stinging.

But let's backtrack a little bit- back before most of the events in this story even took place.

Most people carry with them the belief that I have an easy life. This is most likely justified because I'm naturally smart, hail from a decently wealthy family, and look decently attractive. And truthfully, I can see their point. My life is easy. At least, in comparison to what the starving kids in some misnamed third-world country probably have to deal with.

I am, what most people spit at me behind my back, a coaster. I eat when I am hungry, I wear warmer coats when I am cold- I have colleges already phoning me despite never having sent an application. I'm going to get a successfully mediocre job as a doctor, or newspaper editor, or business CEO. I'm going to live a life above the average man (yet not too above average- I'm considered a comparative, not a superlative).

Like my mother (Catherine, the one who's married to my dad) used to always chime to me:

"God has blessed you, Craig."

I'm blessed, I'm lucky, I've got it made, I'm set for life.

I've heard it all before.

But right then, as I was cupping my scorching cheek and breathing in a heavy, ragged pattern so that I wouldn't start crying, I didn't feel very lucky. Tweek edged closer to me as soon as the clicking of Thelma's heels against the earth were no longer audible, kneeling on the frigid pavement and scooping up a handful of packed snow. Hands trembling, he pressed it to my cheek. I shoved him away, wiping the dirty ice off my face and hurling it at him. It missed, landing in a snow bank to his left.

"You could've _helped!_" I growled, standing up and refusing Tweek's hand as he tried to hoist me up. I pushed him away once again, momentarily startled when he stumbled over like a rag doll and only barely managed to catch himself.

Tweek, by now figuring it'd be rather counterproductive to try and comfort me, spoke instead. His eyes looked into space somewhere behind me, and his face was stricken, as if he had seen a ghost.

"I," he began, his voice small. "I have never seen a mother act like that." After a short pause, he spoke up again. "I think it was a body snatcher. I seen this movie once where-"

I took in a large breath and grit my teeth. "_Shut up_!" I roared. "Just shut the _fuck_ up for _once!_"

I suppose I was more slighted than I should've been, given the circumstances. Not only was Tweek under no obligation to help me, but he probably wouldn't be able to do much anyways (the guy could barely open a door for Christ's sake). But these rational though processes were lost on me. I was angry, and hurt, and the bile in my stomach was threatening to sear my throat and come up. I gasped for air, feeling choked and depraved. It was as if there was a literal weight pressing on my chest and crushing my lungs, making me dizzy and lightheaded, and wanting to cry.

Tweek shook his head. "I..." he trailed off, a wary look in his eyes as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest and inched backwards.

About that time, Clyde burst from his house and ran out. He immediately grabbed my shoulders and forced me to look at him so that he could inspect my cheek.

"Bruised," Clyde remarked. "Wanna come inside, bro? I got ice packs."

I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream and roar at him in my fiercest voice that no, I didn't want to come inside. I wanted to be left alone, and I wanted to punch something, and he'd better move the hell out of my way before I decided that my target was his nose. I wanted to tell him that I was angry, and that my insides throbbed worse than my face, and that fire was burning in my stomach.

But I am not that kind of person, so instead, I simply choked out: "thank you," and followed him into his house.

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**Kudos to: R (seriously, you're amazingly wonderful- thank you), Style Marshlovski, Spearo, The Pheonix of the Night, and Physco. **


	4. The Urn

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

**It took me a while to figure out how I wanted this chapter, and I decided that it would dive a little deeper into Tweek's sort of mindset. It'll end up being the last evenly paced chapter until I start bouncing dates. (days to several days to weeks, etc.) ****If something seems like it was written with the intent of being funny, assume it was. I have a bad sense of humor. **

**I'm not sure about this chapter, but I'm never sure about any chapter, so I'll leave it up to you guys. **

**Remember, a review a day keeps me from sighing in discontent every time I refresh my notifications. **

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I awoke to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream and fitful pounding on the floor beneath me.

However, chronologically speaking, we should go back to a moment in time a fair bit before then.

Clyde Donovan's house was perfect.

Imagine that old, handmade dollhouse that you used to have when you were a kid, not yet even able to discern between which toys were designated for boys, and which for girls. It was a two story, stainless white walled, beauty boasting impressive architecture design and dully glimmering wooden floors. Large sun windows encompassed the house, exposing it to the natural light surrounding it. Antique toy furniture occupied the room, all placed to aesthetically appealing impeccability.

Imagine you became absolutely enamored, encapsulated, with the creation and the strings of emotion that seem just as tangible to you as the wooden frame itself. Afraid of ruining it, you vow never to play within its precious walls, and thus you are left simply staring at it with your plastic toy soldiers in one sticky hand and a dissatisfied frown on your face. You can only sit there as the walls yellow with nicotine, and the furniture becomes dusty and broken by age.

That's the synopsis of his house. Before his mother passed, she was an esteemed interior designer, and she had hand-placed every piece of fine decoration in the Donovan household.

Unfortunately, Clyde's not very good at severing the cords of emotion that spiderweb from our chests and string to what we hold dear. This house, the furniture, the very smallest of decorations- they all work in machine-like cooperation to serve as one immense trigger to him. Re-arranging anything in the house is a direct nine-one-one call for an anxiety attack for him.

As we walked through the doors, I looked about the home as I always do. Clyde's house is a fair bit fancier than most homes in South Park. Nothing like Token Black's, but still very eloquent. Hanging from the vaulted ceiling is an old bronze chandelier that doesn't work. Clyde and I broke it when we were kids trying to see if we could swing from it like in the movies. We couldn't, it broke, and Clyde wouldn't move from the bathroom floor until it was replaced.

Clyde eased me into a love seat that had been pressed to the wall. He offered Tweek a seat as well, receiving a shake of the head and a smart remark ("do I look like I need to be cared for? I don't think so").

He retreated into the kitchen, leaving a window of time for Tweek to speak up.

"You okay?" He asked, trying his best to rid his tone of the snarky sarcasm that usually doused it. I snorted in response.

"Fine." The anger I had experienced minutes ago was fading, much akin to the short lasting tang of bitter medicine. Unfortunately the aftertaste of sharp motor oil and the weak pungent artificial orange flavoring still clamped down on my tongue.

"You don't sound fine," he pointed out.

"Don't worry about me," I quipped.

"But I am worried."

"Why? I told you- I'm fine."

"Because I worry about everything!" He yelled, eyebrows drawn together in an ugly, irate fashion. Seconds passed. Awkwardly forcing myself not to look at Tweek, I wondered why Clyde seemed to be taking so long.

Tweek broke the silence. "You're mad at me," he whispered.

"I'm not, I'm just..._agitated_," I responded, sighing and letting myself glance at him. His bright blue eyes welled with uncertainty. I outstretched my hand and felt guilt spike in my stomach when he flinched and stepped backwards. He covered his shut eyes with his hands and clenched his jaw.

Like ingesting a mouthful of sugar to rid the stagnant choke of medicine, the taste and the anger fled down to the pit of my stomach. It's that rapid mood change from being angry, to holding a small animal in your palms that somehow mediates the redness in your vision.

"Sit down." My offer sounded more like a demand. Still, Tweek bit his lip and shuffled over, taking a seat down next to me and pulling his legs up to coil his arms around his knees.

Eventually, Tweek found himself bored. He pulled a pocket-sized sharpie marker from seemingly nowhere and pulled up his sleeves to his shoulder. I followed his lithe fingers as they rolled up the fabric past a moderately toned bicep and then retreated down his thin arm. He started scribbling down words on his arms, the pink colored words being spasmodic and illegible to all but himself.

The one word I did catch was 'snow', scrawled out at the beginning of each line.

Clyde came back shortly after, apologizing and informing me that he had been talking with his sister, Molly. He passed me the ice pack and consulted me to press it to my cheek to reduce the swelling.

"Better, bro?" Clyde asked.

"Mm," I nodded.

Nothing. Then:

"The Red Racer movie's on in fifteen minutes, y'know. Wanna watch it?" I uttered, my voice bouncing about the slanted walls like rubber. It'd be a dead lie to try and claim I didn't memorize the movie's time slot.

Clyde laughed cheerfully, visibly relieved, and plopped down on the recliner, flicking on the television. He made a smart quip about my apparent dorkiness or something of that regard and flicked the television on to Nickelodeon. Tweek smiled blankly.

"I used to watch this show when I was little," he remarked.

"I still watch it," I grinned back. "Have you seen my boxers?"

Tweek's eyes went wide and his face red. He spluttered out something about 'Indecent Exposure!' and waving his hands around dramatically. I cocked my brow and snickered.

"Calm down. Take a check," I eased my pants down so that he could get an eyeful of the unceremoniously garish RED RACER symbol. "Nice, right?"

Tweek said nothing, only offering me a flustered red-faced stare and crossing his arms, turning away abruptly. I let a small snort break through the barriers of my lips and heard the same amused type of noise from Clyde.

Watching the movie, along with the other ones that followed shortly after, made time slip by for me, and soon I was looking at my cellphone and realizing that it was past six.

"Dudes. Food," Clyde blurted out. With a nose like a bloodhound's, he drifted into the kitchen. Sharing a shrug, Tweek and I followed.

Standing in the kitchen and fending Clyde off with a bunny slipper in one hand and a large greasy bag of Taco Bell in the other, was Molly Donovan.

"Hey, hey, Craigster!" she announced, flashing me a brilliant retainer-clad grin. "Heard you got roughed up. Sorry. Anyways, I went and got us some food! The line at Taco Bell was so long, could I tell you! Say, who's that little mouse? One of your little friends?" Et-cetera. Molly had a real talent for rambling- and she even held an actual PTA filibuster for three hours. Something about Anti-Bullying week and the likes.

"Hey! My name's Tweek!" Tweek grinned back, obviously energized by her peppy attitude. He thrust his hand forward and smacked it on the metal toaster with a loud clang. He yelped, ripping his hand back on reflex, and shaking it wildly as if that would mollify the pain. "Right," Tweek hissed, still grinning. "Shoulda warned me about the toaster. Although someone probably set it up there just plotting for me to whack my hand on it."

"My... Mom always put the toaster there..." Clyde whispered, eyes wide and smile melting like hot butter. I frowned, and felt my stomach turn. Tweek had done it now.

Tweek said nothing except for an unapologetic, "whoops". Between the three four of us, he seemed the only one who was apathetic.

Clyde suddenly burst out into a fit of laughter. "Kidding! God, the look on your face was priceless, bro! Oh man!" I was still stone faced, but Tweek seemed to smile right along with him.

"No fair! Dead-mom jokes are off limits," Tweek snickered, shoving Clyde gently. Clyde shoved back and Tweek stumbled into my chest.

He jumped at the contact and used my stomach as a spring board to launch himself back at Clyde.

I noticed that he was making pretty light fun out of tragedy for a person who dislikes making friends from such. I wondered if it was just my presence that made the air tense and thick. I sighed, letting the over-thinking bypass, and laughing along.

I felt better already.

* * *

I awoke to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream and fitful pounding on the floor beneath me.

Tweek had agreed to stay the night after some convincing, and his dad had been ecstatic ("Making friends left and right! Such a dog amongst cats!")

Clyde and Molly had collected a heap of big blankets and had arranged them on the ground like a campsite. Pillows, snacks, and a laptop computer were sprawled everywhere like a haphazard tornado had tossed them about. Tweek had torn Clyde's room apart because he was certain that the government had planted cameras in acts of espionage. At first we thought he was kidding when he suggested a search, but he must've actually been pretty dedicated to the idea, because he whipped through Clyde's room like a blond tornado and after ten minutes of seemingly random destruction, deemed the area safe to sleep in.

Molly had considered staying home, as she stood at the doorway and watched us nervously.

"Hey, buttmunch, I might not go to Shelly's tonight if you have guests," she hummed thoughtfully, "don't want you weirdos to have a huge gay orgy without supervision or whatever."

Clyde laughed, and then, "don't worry, sis! I know where the condoms are if the moment is spurred! Go to Shelly's. Maybe you can finally make a move on 'er!"

Molly retreated from the doorway with a sheepish, "oh my"- hands covering her blushing cheeks.

Later, as I jolted from my sleeping position and rapidly tried to locate the source of the tumult, it was four in the morning and cold as ice in Clyde's room. My eyes quickly locked onto Tweek's wild form, widening in shock as he banged on the walls and yelled until his voice cracked. There was a wild look in his eyes, as if he wasn't seeing what was actually there. I bolted to action and woke Clyde, desperately shaking him all while keeping a wary eye on Tweek.

"Where is she?! I need her! I need her! No!" He roared, repeating the chilling pleas over and over like an iPod on repeat.

He looked like a feral animal, eyes primal and black as iron, arms whipping around in furious haze, and shoulders tense and defensive. I attempted to edge near him, hardly managing to dodge a swing of his arms. I rested my heavy hand on his shoulder. He screeched as if I'd set it alight. I had never seen him like this. I had never seen anyone like this. I was scared. Really scared.

"Don't touch me!" He hissed. His voice shattered like breakaway glass. "P-lease don't... touch..." He flattened himself to the wall and slammed his eyes shut, trying to block out whatever horrible thing he was seeing instead of Clyde's safe room.

"Tweek, it's me! Craig!" I snapped, trying to inch closer once more. Clyde's warning came too late.

Tweek lunged forwards, delicate fingers drawn into tight fists. He swung like he was intoxicated, leaving what would become marks and bruises on my chest and arms. He scratched. The skin on my forearm ripped.

And then, he was gone. Using a blue pillow as a blockade, Clyde tackled Tweek off of me and pinned him to the ground. His eyes were a stern kind of concentrated that I'd only seen in my father before.

Tweek stumbled away, trapping himself in a corner. His eyelids were squeezed shut and he was sniveling now, curled up into a ball and rocking himself back and forth with his heels.

"Watch," Clyde demanded, shoving me back as I tried to move towards him yet again.

He stepped near Tweek, hesitant as his eyes tried to pick up and violent body language. When he found none, he advanced further, until he was but a few inches away.

"Tweek?" Clyde whispered.

"I hate cars," Tweek moaned hoarsely, choking on his own spit and coughing.

"Tweek, you're safe. It's not real."

Tweek shook his head. "I see headlights."

I furrowed my eyebrows together, and then popped my jaw ajar with a start. Tweek had been with his mom when they crashed. What he was seeing was flashbacks. I felt my throat lump up. They must've been strikingly vivid.

"Can I touch you?" Clyde asked patiently, his hands clasped together.

Tweek said no harshly, that maniacal glint returning to his eyes for a moment, and then fading.

"Alright. When you're ready, just lean on me, okay? It'll make you better." Clyde shot me a glance and then returned his view to Tweek.

Tweek nodded.

Clyde took a heavy breath. "Alright," he whispered.

_"People smile and tell me that I'm the lucky one/ and we've just begun..."_

He was singing. I'd only heard Clyde sing a few times, and they'd all been outlandishly out-of-tune as he tried belting to hip-hop or rap. This was different. I had never thought he'd have such a pleasant voice. I let myself drift off to it.

_"Even though we ain't got money, I'm so in love with you, honey/_  
_And everything will bring a chain of love/_  
_And in the morning, when I rise, you bring a tear of joy to my eyes/_  
_And tell me everything's gonna be alright..."_

Tweek calmed down drastically, swallowing his noises and leaning over to let Clyde wrap his arms around his small body. Clyde swayed back and forth, continuing the rocking motion. Tweek's breathing regulated and his eyes opened with tentative caution. His mouth hung open slightly, and he whispered, "I'm okay, I'm okay."

Clyde kept singing, and Tweek eventually stopped all erratic behavior altogether, contentedly pulling out a marker from his pocket and re-touching the swans on his arms.

"Where'd you learn how to do that?" I asked softly, leaning forward to examine Clyde's face.

It was the mix of determined calmness and sadness that set me off. He cracked a weak smile.

"I used to have episodes like that all the time," he whispered. "Molly used to sing that song to me to calm me down. You're supposed to distract them from whatever they see when they're experiencing flashbacks and shit so you can ease them back into the real world, y'know, man?" He offered me a fake chuckle and ran his fingers down Tweek's back gently.

I leaned down and looked into Tweek's half-lidded eyes. He looked far more serene than that of what I was used to seeing. Despite, a big, goofy smile was still plastered on his face.

"You alright?"

"Didn't you hear? Everything's alright," Tweek smiled. "Really, though. Despite the awkward situation of being wrapped up in another guy's arms... I'm fine." He cracked a signature grin.

"Good," I sighed in relief, tending to the sting on my arms.

"Craig, bro, I'm gonna go and get you a bandage for that. Is that okay, Tweek?" Clyde retracted his arms.

"Uh-huh. I'll just awkwardly cuddle with Craig here," Tweek snorted back, pulling away so that Clyde could go and fetch a bandage.

Tweek crossed his legs and averted my eyes. His cheerful atmosphere left like a fleeting storm along with Clyde. He clenched his jaw and crossed his arms, making himself visibly smaller.

"You didn't see that. You didn't see any of that," he snapped, voice trembling. I nodded in reluctant affirmation.

"What was going on there?" I whispered. "You were yelling about needing something. Needing her."

"Just forget about it, okay? It didn't happen."

I formed an idle thought. A thought that constituted Tweek as a tangled piece of twine, one that you spent time trying to pick apart until finally, randomly, it unraveled before you- yet it still somehow seemed to appear knotted. He was a complex person with a knack for hiding away from others, a strange desire to stay that way.

I decided that we were not very different people.

Clyde returned shortly, wrapping up my arms and rubbing Tweek's shoulder comfortingly before crawling back to his space and passing out. Whispering a lazy "g'night", I also slithered back under the covers.

I let numbness take me, senses slowly ebbing into blackness. Then, an intrusion.

My eyes cracked open. Tweek was hovering above me, his finger pressed to my cheek.

"Let me sleep with you, please," he whispered, "I need something to hold or else I'll...y'know. Again."

"Why not ask Clyde?" I asked with a bitter edge to my tone.

"I don't want to bother him again. Plus you make me feel safer, alright? Was that the answer you were looking for?" Tweek snipped impatiently.

I did nothing except lift the covers invitingly and allow him to wedge himself between them. He squished his body close to mine and buried his nose into my chest. Small arms wrapped around my body, and I followed suit, covering us back up and pulling him yet even closer.

We said nothing for a bit, trying to push off our awkwardness. Tweek eventually blurted:

"Craig?"

"Hm?"

"Can I say something?"

I frowned. "If it's 'No Homo' I'm kicking you out."

"No. It's not that. It's...about what happened, okay?"

"I thought you said what happened never happened at all?"

"Well, I changed my mind. It did happen."

"... Go ahead, then," I prompted, reluctance oozing from my throat.

"Okay, uh, don't freak out," I decided that those probably weren't the best words to start the explanation of an emotional trauma with.

"I, uh, sleep with my mother's urn. Y'know that nice vase in my room? Yeah," he paused. "When I don't sleep with it, I get bad nightmares. I mean, I get nightmares with it, but it calms me down before I can make a scene. I guess I thought I'd be okay without it for just one night. The nightmares hadn't occurred in weeks. So, um, yeah. You can push me away if you want, now."

I shook my head. Tweek smiled into the fabric of my shirt.

"You didn't have it when I slept over," I observed.

"I did. I hid it so you wouldn't find out," his fingers tightened around the fabric of my shirt. "Sorry."

"So when you were saying, "I need her", you were talking about...?"

"Yeah." Tweek hummed. "I feel weird doing this," he blurted out in an attempt to divert the course of conversation.

"What?"

"Well, if you weren't aware: we're sort of snuggling. Like, doing a 'couple-y-romance-holding-each-other' kind of thing. I feel like someone's watching us." Tweek picked at the cotton on my back with his fingers.

"It doesn't need to be romantic." I reminded him. "Would this be different if I were a girl?"

"To be honest? Yeah, probably. I'd feel even worse," Tweek groaned. "All girls ever do is try to pretend they like me and then giggle behind my back."

"So I assume you've never had a girlfriend."

"One girlfriend," he corrected. "Heidi. Third grade, two weeks." His fingers got more erratic in their movements, and his body seemed tense.

"Oh," I offered a terse response.

"Uh-huh."

Pause.

"Let's go to sleep, okay?" I muttered. Tweek shook his head.

"I can't sleep now. Tell me a story or something."

I sighed. It was proving to be a long night. Relenting, I took a breath and spoke.

"Alright, um- so in a galaxy far away, there was a spaceman who-"

"What's his name?" Tweek asked, closing his eyes and loosening his hold around me. I rolled my eyes.

"Uh- it's Craig."

"That's your name, dipshit."

"Mere coincidence," I waved him off carelessly, continuing. "Who was racing through the mud-lands of Sylverslovakia, a distant planet. He ran to grab his phaser gun and..."

Not even ten minutes later, we both found ourselves asleep.

* * *

**Kudos to: Impassive tears, BetsunoNeko, The Phoenix of the Night, and Kiagumo (I had to google-translate your Spanish- sorry!)**

**Music Track: Danny's Song- Kenny Loggins**


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